


Bring her home

by Naysa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cousin Incest, F/M, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 01:03:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6494728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naysa/pseuds/Naysa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Jodi Picoult — 'Home is not a place, but rather, the people you love'.</em>
</p><p>And Arya has a hard time learning that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring her home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where's home?
> 
>  
> 
> _Winterfell_

He sees her from afar, half covered in blood and dancing from target to target with grace and determination. Like an angel of death, strike after strike, leading enemies to their graves with a cold precision that makes him pause. A giant wolf—no, a great _direwolf_ —follows her closely, teeths and claws ripping and destroying, growling with ferocity. It can be no other than Nymeria, protecting her back from any idiotic man that tries to attack them both.

_Arya._

He is in the middle of battle, panting heavily, half covered in blood himself, surrounded by men that want him dead, but he can do no other thing but stare at her. Because, even from a distance, he recognizes her the minute he lays eyes on her. She looks too much like a Stark and it would be stupid not to see it, not to make the connection. There are four Stark children alive and the only one missing still, is her. But he would recognize her without all those clues. He would recognize her anywhere, anytime. Even during battle, with too much movement around them both.

Movement he catches through the corner of his eye and with a growl of frustration he tears his gaze from Arya to fight the man that comes at him swiftly. Longclaw finds flesh almost without him meaning to, the mechanism so familiar in his muscles that there's no need to think every move at this point. The man holds his ground still and Jon attacks him again, almost with desperation. He fears that if he doesn't look back at her soon, she'll dissipate in the winter breeze like an incorporeal dream. Like the foolish hope of his heart, reaching to find her even if it's just for a few seconds in a feeble creation of his own mind.

Finally, Longclaw pierces the muscles of the man's heart as Jon stares directly into his dying eyes and with a swift pull the sword comes out covered in the dark blood that belonged to its victim. The man exhales his last breath before falling to the ground, as dead as it can be, and Jon turns back to Arya, afraid and numb at the same time.

His eyes scan the last place where he saw her, his heart beating heavily. He finds her again and a breath of relief pushes through his lungs. She's there. Alive, deadly, beautiful and there. Truly there, fighting relentlessly with Nymeria always close to her. Is in that moment, when his eyes caught her graceful form again, that he notices the other wolves. Dozens of them, running around with bared teeth and loud growls, blood covered furs and sharp claws. They move around her and Nymeria, fighting and hunting men without drifting too far away, in circles around them both as if Nymeria is their center of gravity. He recognizes their strategy, the system of skilled hunters working in complete synchronization under the leadership of the greater among them. The operation of a pack.

The battle arounds him goes into frenzy as the men start to realize their imminent death. They befall in desperation, fighting tooth and nails to stay alive, attacking anything in Stark or Targaryen coloring and Jon is wearing both. Soon the fight draws him again, forcing him to focus on every single enemy in front of him, not allowing him to look at Arya anymore, and as desperation crawls through his skin once more, another feeling is pushed through him, fueling the fire in his veins. A stronger feeling, sharper.

Determination.

 _I'll find her_ , he vows to himself, furiously fighting through the sea of people. The wolves are still fighting, Ghost among them now and he knows the wolves will stay close to her. _As long as they are here, so will she. And I'll find her._

His sword finds flesh again and his heart is pulled to his movements. Man after man, he kills mercilessly. _A battle field is no time for doubt, a war is no time for distraction,_ the words long ago read in a history book comes to his mind as he fights. The battle for Winterfell is almost won and there's hardly any Bolton banner standing by now. He remembers his own words before battle: _Winter has come for them because today_ we _are winter. Winterfell must be ruled by Starks and the Boltons have been sitting in that throne for far too long._ He thinks of Bran's presence at his side, sitting in a moveable throne made of weirwood with a cape made of dark crow's feathers and that three-eyed raven sitting on his shoulder; looking nothing like a Lord, nothing like a King, but just like a God. Piercing eyes and an ethereal aura that made chills travel through the skin of whoever was looking at him.

 _Do not fail me_ , his eyes seemed to ask. _Do not leave me._

So Jon fights with everything he has. For Bran, for Rickon, for Sansa, for Robb, for his uncle Ned; even for Lady Catelyn. He fights for Winterfell, for justice, for the North. But, now, above everything, he fights for Arya. For the hope his heart has held this whole time. He fights and he fights to win.

* * *

 

The snow is tainted red with blood, pink in the places where just a few drops fell. It seems fitting, Arya muses, considering House Bolton’s colors.

_Serves them right. To end like this after what they did._

Nymeria is by her side, fur thick and stiff with clotted blood. She’s softly nuzzling her hand whilst they both walk. Arya rises her arm to rest it in her neck, her hand curling to scratch her ears and Nymeria moves even closer.

“You fought well, my girl,” Arya whispers to her, smiling. The she-wolf is so big Arya doesn’t even has to incline her head to whisper in her ear.

There are five more wolves, smaller than Nymeria, close to Arya, nuzzling and sniffing her. She’s been with Nymeria and her pack for three weeks now. They took her in as one of them as soon as Nymeria licked her face when they met again and now they won’t leave her unless she commands them to. They follow her everywhere—not the whole pack; just a small part—even when Nymeria doesn’t, like loyal little pups. It’s endearing and comforting to never be truly alone.

With a sigh, Arya stops walking. She has been looking for Ramsay’s body, even though she has never seen his face, but there’s been no luck. Maybe they even crossed swords and she doesn’t even know, but she hardly had time to investigate further.

When she reached the North, not a week ago, the news of the impending battle were everywhere. The Stark King was marching from the Wall to Winterfell with an army of wildlings and northmen, boldly announcing to the Boltons that their days as Wardens of the North were over.

What the Boltons didn’t know was that Sansa Stark, who had married Harrold Hardyng, was now Lady of the Vale after the simultaneous deaths of Robert Arryn and the Lord Protector, Petyr Baelish. In utmost secrecy, her husband Harrold had given orders to raise their swords for the Starks and the Knights of the Vale marched through the snow towards the Dreadfort with no one paying attention to them. Half the kingdom worried about the Targaryens just settling in King’s Landing, the other half worried about Bran marching from the Wall.

She couldn’t stay away from the fight, she had to be a part of it. Winterfell was hers as much as it belonged to her siblings and she was going to take part in the battle to set it free even if she would have to slip in the middle of it without having time to even look at her siblings or to check if Bran’s survival was true.

(It had to. That’s what she told herself, it had to.)

No one saw them coming and a battle at two fronts, one of them a complete surprise, is too hard to win. The Boltons couldn’t hold the wolves away, not when they have made them as mad as the Starks were.

She breathes deep and looks around. Winterfell is free, finally. It stands like a broken fortress, half of it still in ruins, the other half rebuilt by traitorous hands and her heart aches and screams and cries. She’s home, after years of longing, so why she feels lost?

The wolves seem to feel the crawling desperation growing in her veins and they whine, moving relentlessly around her, trying to comfort her, trying to comfort themselves.

Arya stands and waits. Waits for the feeling of not-belonging to leave, waits for the warmth of her childhood to come back, waits for the black hole in her chest to turn into her heart again. Where is it? Where’s her heart?

 _I’m home, I’m home, I’m home._ It goes over and over in her mind, and she’s waiting, waiting, waiting but her heart doesn’t beat and her muscles don’t relax and she’s breathing way too fast.

She turns around, desperate, looking for home. All this time, home has been Winterfell in her mind. Home was a place she could reach. Home existed. Where is it now?

When she feels tears running down her cheeks, she sprints into a run and doesn’t look back. The wolves follow her; fast, desperate, their souls merged into one to form a hurricane that threatens to tear her flesh apart. They are running without a purpose, just running away.

The pack feels her and they join her and they are much faster than she is. The wolves aren’t home either, because as much as she likes to call herself one of them, she is not. They run in four legs, fast like the wind, lethal like winter. She’s just a girl.

Where’s home?

Something stops her and her mind is too numb to register anything. She was running a second, the next there’s something warm around her waist and she’s not moving anymore. She hears, _feels,_ a deep breathing behind her, a heart beating wildly against her back, and she recognizes then she’s struggling against an embrace that holds her back.

“Stop, just stop,” the voice is a blow to her chest. She feels the first beating of her heart. “Arya, stop, you don’t have to run anymore.” She has stopped, his voice too much a shock for her to keep moving. She’s not fighting anymore. The voice still goes on. “You don’t have to run anymore.”

“Jon?” Arya asks. Her heart beats a second time as she waits for the answer.

“You don’t have to run anymore,” he repeats and yes, yes, that’s Jon’s voice. It can’t be someone else's. “You are home now.”

_Home?_

And all she has been waiting for, is finally there. She doesn’t feel out of place anymore, where she stands is just where she’s supposed to be. There’s warmth in her flesh and her heart is beating again in her chest and the tears in her eyes don’t burn like the ashes of death.

“Jon.” She says again, the warmth of her heart slipping through her voice. He lets go of her, only a little, only enough for her to turn and face him.

The sight of his familiar face, even though it looks different, makes a sob climb out of her chest. He’s older, with scars on his face and wisdom in his grey eyes, but the smile is the same. The smile that was just for her.

She hides her face in the crook of his neck and there’s just one thing in her mind:

_I’m home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this was a really rushed work, so there might be a lot of mistakes in the middle. A lot of things were left without details (and a lot of tagged characters didn't make an appareance) but, don't worry, this work has three more chapters where I'm digging in a particular theme that has been on my mind for a long time.
> 
> Please, don't forget to leave a review! Thank you for reading.
> 
> PS: Sapphire, I love you! Hopefully, this cheered you up, as it was intended.


End file.
